He came out of the night like a black shadow among shadows, with the speed of the wind to carry him.

A light creak of leather as he halted, a glimmer of star light on Satan as he wheeled, a clink of steel, and then Dan was coming up the path.
She knew him perfectly even before she could make out the details of the form; she knew him by the light, swift, almost noiseless step, like the padding footfall of a great cat--a sense of weight without sound.
Another form skulked behind him--Black Bart.
He was close, very close, before he stopped, or seemed to see her, though she felt that he must have been aware of her since he first rode up.

He was so close, indeed, that the starlight--the brim of his hat standing up somewhat from the swift riding--showed his face quite clearly to her.

It was boyish, almost, in its extreme youth, and so thinly molded, and his frame so lightly made, that he seemed one risen from a wasting bed of sickness.

The wind fluttered his shirt and she wondered, as she had wondered so often before, where he gained that incredible strength in so meager a body.